Impromptu
by Scythers
Summary: Akiyama Ryo and Ichijouji Ken must fight Millenniumon. Ryo reflects upon hatred and his failing memory. [Wonderswan era.]


**# # #**

**IMPROMPTU**

**# # #**

The sand is very hot and bakes your sneakers.  You know that if you stepped into a hollow drift, you may as well say good-bye not only to a shoe, but also to any unprotected skin.  Generally you try to pass through the dips and valleys between dunes, but sometimes there is no escaping a towering mound of sand that rests between you and your distant destination.  All ground for miles around is scorching and leaves burns easily on the vulnerable.  Your smaller companion is sucking on a few crispy fingers that became his penalty for trying to tie his shoelaces at midday.  The emergency medical kit you bought in the last town is now empty of supplies.  It ran out a few days ago when a dissident force of Gazimon surprised your encampment during a new moon.  Ken was vainglorious for the three-inch cut he sustained during the battle – not only did that need patching, but also two of Wormmon's legs and the nasty bumps on Veemon's head.  (He whined loudly about the bandages crunching his "style," but you couldn't ignore these injuries.)  The last disinfectant bottle broke by accident this morning and the tweezers are worthless.

It's a real sizzling day out here and you are frustrated because last night was one of the coldest you've ever lived through in this world.  Though you can't expect the climate to make perfect sense, you slept on sand that felt like a sheet of ice and now you're walking across broiling grit.  Its changeability does not entertain you.  Radiant heat leaves your surroundings distorted: the dunes flicker and wave back and forth like bad reception on an old television set.  You passed one set earlier, half-buried in a slope, but by now it must be a few hundred yards behind you; nonetheless, it proved of no use with its face kicked in and antenna snapped.  A detour across the endless wasteland is all you wish for now; but everything that could create one has been demolished; and you think it's meant to taunt you or corrupt your morale.  Ken just wants some of his mother's lumpy mashed potatoes and contributes little else to the group once there's only silence and sand stretching for miles.  Veemon and Wormmon are the real troopers, so you don't break the unthreatening silence between them either.  You're left with yourself most of the time.  Lately you have been scared shitless of silence, though you won't admit it: if you could hear me right now, you would shake your head.  Sorry, but it's true.

You walk until sundown every day because once the sun slips under the horizon everything begins to cool off immediately like a fresh cake from the oven.  Shadows grow longer and longer until they disappear under the twilight's spreading bruises.  The wind feels cooler than the standing temperature and that means your brains aren't roasting anymore.  You usually collapse first; no one offers a complaint because they mimic you like a destabilized house of cards.  Follow the leader, everybody.  This is when you find words for Ken or the Digimon that don't sear your throat.  It's also the wonderful time of rations, but even those are dwindling and you wonder how much farther your destination is.  Luckily the power lines you are following right now, the hulks left slanted in the sand like tall and worn crucifixes, sometimes mark spots where battered – and functioning – refrigerators sit.  They provide not only a tentative reprieve from the heat, but thus far a few have had stores tucked into them by thoughtless, nameless no ones.

Right now the sun is directly above you, which means there are still sweltering hours that have not been investigated.  To the west and east are rising dunes that seem to climb higher with every step you take; you hope they're hallucinations because those sandy infernos come together somewhere and you might have to scale each despite the burning sand.  Waiting until nightfall for these advances takes too long.  You have a schedule to keep.

This resolve to keep moving at all costs until it's dark vanishes when Ken points one of his stubby arms at the horizon.

"Oasis!"

**# # #**

You think it's a mirage even after dipping your parched feet into the pond.

It was a race to get here: Veemon and Wormmon were neck-and-neck the entire way, while Ken tried his best to keep up despite looking as though he might suffer from sunstroke.  (So you kindly gave him a piggy-back ride and he seemed to enjoy it in a tired, resigned way that allowed no words.)

The oasis you're resting in is enclosed by a protective ring of coalesced palm trees; the sun cannot even dream of penetrating the long fronds no matter what its angle is.  You know that the sand is cool during the day – you wiggle your fingers into it – and that the water cannot evaporate sooner than the spring can fill up again.  Even the hot, clever wind has a hard time threading through the tree trunks.  This place is a haven that appeared out of nowhere and you are surprised that no indigenous denizens are also using it as a layover.

"This doesn't seem right, Veemon," you say.

"I don't think you should worry," he says back.

You swirl the sandy bottom of the pond with your toes, testing its realism.  It answers appropriately, but you're still wary of this place.  Everyone else is having a great time playing in the water and then drinking their fill of it, so you suppose it's only your inherent paranoia of staying in one place for too long.

**# # #**

"Ryo-sama?"

It's later now.  You pull your arm away from your face and open both eyes.  Ken is standing beside you, looking down since you're lying beside the pond.  His bottom lip is drawn under a row of teeth, wearing an expression that appears only when he suffers from aboulia caused by physical inaction or his fretful mind.  Without invitation he sits cross-legged and tucks his hands together like an eager schoolboy.

You shut your eyes again.  "Yes, Ken?"

"How long are we going to stay here?"

It has already been a few hours, but you cannot trust a watch: time is invariable here and you might have gained time rather than lost it, but it's hard to tell.  Your surroundings are still bright, so you wager it can be no later than a few hours past midday.  Ken's question strikes you as odd since he seemed to enjoy the respite here.

"We'll get moving before twilight.  I don't plan on spending the night."  You fold your arms behind your head.

"Oh."

Ken doesn't move.

". . . Oh?" you say.

"I was hoping that we could stay for longer," he says quietly.  When you look at him again, his eyes are full from the threat of tears, he's biting his bottom lip as before, and his hands are moving around one another like two moths with a flame.  "Like . . . forever."

You have gone through these motions before: Ken isn't protesting, but he makes his opposition toward your destination – the fight with the desert menace – more vocal than even Wormmon or your rational thoughts do.  Explaining why you must cross the desert is hard even after so many recitals.  First you lift your hand and touch Ken's; and then you sit up.  From there you must catch his eyes before they dart away since once you command his gaze it's much easier to steady him.

You could write a handbook and entitle it _Calming Down Ichijouji_.

You do all of these things in the correct order, as expected; you do not shrink from controlling where he does and doesn't look.

"Ken, you know why we have to fight.  This entire world is at stake along with the real world.  Your parents, your brother, and your friends – they're all in danger if we don't do something.  Millenniumon takes no prisoners."  Even your words are verbatim, read straight from page ten, section two, all of paragraph five.  You give him the recommended winning smile indicated in parentheses and go on:  "Hey, we're going to do fine.  You'll see.  Wormmon and Veemon are strong."

He has heard all of this before.  You can even see the recognition curdling in his eyes.  No matter how upset he seems, or how high-risk the situation is, he usually sheds a few tears from fear or helplessness and leaves to spruce his beliefs.  Right now seems to be no exception because he looks at you with these huge, quaking eyes that favor tears, and then – without warning – blinks the shine away.  His expression hardens with ice.  You frantically turn to the handbook's glossary and skim down it.

"That's crap," he says and sniffles once.  He wipes his face with the crook of his elbow, but it comes away dry.  Your fingers are too loose with surprise to continue holding his hands.  "That's just crap, Ryo-sama!"

"Ken –"

"I just want to go home!" he yells.  When he glares at you, never before this moment have you felt so ashamed for dragging him in over his head with your platitudes.  "I want to go home and not have to stay up most nights, unable to sleep, 'cause another Gazimon could bite my fingers off.  I want to go home and eat some rocky road ice cream instead of dehydrated fruit!  I want . . ."

The boy so proud to have been wounded during a battle, to have participated as a target, now resents you and your leadership.  You are frightened by the lucidity of this realization.  What's worse is that you recognize this – this hatred.  It's in his eyes, where you saw it before when you were first exposed.

Hey, why is it getting darker?

**# # #**

It's like you're participating in a movie – one of your memories is on the silver screen and you're the main character without realizing it.  The callboard had your name.

. . .

You are at home again.  Even though you have been away for a long time, you remember everything as you see it now, except your mother's rocking chair is to the left of the couch rather than the right.  The floor is wood in the foyer and then green carpet in the living and dining rooms.  You never liked home in an instinctual way, just as you never liked talking to strangers or eating new vegetables.  But it's not a bad place and it's not in a bad part of town; bad people don't live in the apartments above, below, or beside you.  The corners are corners, sometimes dusty, and your closet doesn't bear a monster lurking in between your galoshes and ice skates.  Shadows can masquerade as large, fluid things that stir your young imagination, but they're just kidding, and later the way they move when the clouds sail across the moon lulls you off to sleep.  It's their apology and you accept it because you don't know any better.

At home you are brave.

Look – it's the first time you ever thought something sinister might be living in the closet.  You decide to be pragmatic about it.  Rather than throw the covers over your head, keep your eyes drawn like shutters, and beg for dawn to exterminate it, you slip from bed and find a heavy flashlight in your father's toolkit.  You march right on up to the door and throw it open without regrets.  You search that entire closet from top to bottom, and aside from an embarrassing encounter with a moth that has desperate affinity for light, there is nothing worth mentioning, let alone dangerous.

The scene changes: you're squirming under your bed on another mission for the sinister something and you only discover a few disinteresting comics.

Each new segment is shorter than the last, but they all show your obsession with finding and fighting the childhood monsters other kids are afraid of.  In and out of drawers, a round with an ice cube tray, careful dissection of dustbunnies for clues, peeking under the table at dinner, and everything else leads you up to this conclusion: there are no monsters and everyone else is nuts.  It's disappointing.

Here you are now, pouting at your shoes and turning off the flashlight for what you think is the last time.  While uprooting all of the couch cushions was fun and profitable (you found a few curious things like an old candy bar and your mother's charm bracelet), there was nothing there to duel with.  The adventure has worn thing like every other adventure from before; it is time to reflect fondly, fold it over once or twice, and store it away for later revisiting under the right reminders.  Maybe in one, five, or even fifteen years you will pull out that quest like an old shirt and wear it until you learn that you're too big for its refreshed novelty.

As you're getting up to put the flashlight away, there comes a heavy knock at the front door.  It opens.  Before you can react, the unthinkable happens:

A monster walks into your home.

He's wearing a disguise, as monsters are wont to do when they go among us, but you immediately see through his tricks.  You have to admit that you're a little surprised at first.  You're not familiar with a monster's saunter when all of his many legs are squeezed into costume: it is a slow, kicking, even stumbling step that brings him closer and closer to the wall until his shoulder glances off of it and he goes back on course.  His arms swing like dead weights – he is unused to possessing only two rather than ten – and his glassy eyes cannot focus onto anything.  He bumps into the doorframe and curses.  As you're getting up to call for Mom, he rushes forward and flops into the armchair across from you.  You freeze and forget how to breathe.

Pain and regret and anger radiate off of him, just as your school friends said and you always imagined.  He glowers are you and you notice the smell, one that is sharp and becoming for a monster; it strings your nose as the stench of inebriation, though you cannot understand that and therefore don't know what to label it.  You decide it's almost like rotting candy or fruit.  A monster's perfume.  You feel queasy.

"Hi," you say.  That's all you can think of to say.

The monster grunts.  He removes a work tie with little difficulty, but his jacket is another story: his clumsy fingers push and pull at the buttons until they come undone, save for the last, which he declares isn't necessary with a low, grumbling, "fuck it."  You try not to fidget too much.

Mom walks in with her arms tucked under her breasts.  After one sweep of the room she knows that you're sitting with a monster, but her first reaction is not the one you expected: she does not scream and go for the frying pan, calling for your aid in felling the beast.  She just pauses, and then comes closer, smiling this grim little smile.

"I told you before, Shigeru: you're not supposed to do this in front of him," she hisses at the monster through her teeth.

"I can do whatever I want in front of my kid," the monster says.

"Our kid."

"Yeah, yeah."

She turns to you.  "Can you get Daddy a dishtowel with some ice cubes wrapped up in it?"

"That's not Dad," you say jovially.

Sure.  When he first walked in, he looked just like your dad right on down to the shoeshine, but it takes a fool to believe the camouflage for longer than that.  You see that this monster is cunning, especially since he has already fooled your mom.

You're not about to let him get you too.

"Honey, just get your fathers some ice cubes, please?" your mom asks, strained.

"He's a big old monster!"

The monster grumbles about the noise.  You snicker.

"Stop being weird and do what I asked."

You flip on the flashlight; light splashes onto the wall and chases away the growing shadows of twilight.  "I'll even prove it to you!" you say and the beam cuts across the room.

It brightens on the monster's face and he responds as you had hoped – you always knew that light offended those creatures!  He gives off this queer little howl and holds his hands over his eyes; although it startled him more than hurt, you're glad.

"Akiyama Ryo, you stop clowning around this instant!" your mom cries.  She goes over to the monster and kneels to touch his shoulder.

You're shocked.  Consorting with the enemy, is she?  Why, the nerve!

"But Mommy –"

"Can't you put a leash on that damn kid?" the monster yells once his pupils dilate, adjusting to the light shining in his face.  "Ryo, turn that fucking thing off.  Did I let you get that out of my toolbox?  Huh?"

And this . . .

"Shigeru, he's just playing," your mom says.  She's a very patient person when defending you from monsters, but you know you're in for a real scolding later.

"Don't tell me he doesn't know better!"

"Hey, let go of my mom –"

"Let me go this instant –"

This is yours.

"Monster!"

"I'll let you go when I'm good and ready, woman!"

"Get your hands off me!"

"Let her go!  I said, let – her – go!"

"Don't look away from me!"

"Ryo, just go to your room and let Mommy handle it –"

"But Mom –"

"Shut up!"

"You're hurting me, Shigeru!"

This is the dialogue of your broken home.

"Go to hell!"

All you truthfully remember are the sounds.  When his hand cracks across her cheek, you don't see it.  You just hear skin striking skin.

"Fuck you!"

Silence dominates the room now.  Everything is suspended between a nightmare and reality, stopped in space, allowing you a good look at what you missed the first time as the images filter in – for example, how the living room is painted in darkness that snuck up when you weren't looking.  If you turn to the left, you see a clock reading half-past; to the right there are framed pictures on the wall filled with happy faces that act as mute observers.  Those expressions never twitch.

Everything begins moving again, but there is no easy transition: this scene is cold, hard, fast, and makes your head throb as your mom starts screaming and the monster threatens to hit her again.  Obscenities litter the air like paper airplanes.  The picture frames and dark room fall away again, replaced by the dull roar of their unintelligible argument.  You don't follow it; you don't understand it.  He tries to stand and leave at some point; she grabs his arm and is rewarded with a rough shove.  He laughs.

"Monster!" is your only vociferation.  You charge at him blindly, brandish the flashlight, and hit his left kneecap with it.  He crumbles and his protest of pain fills the room.  Your mother's gasp is glory.

Before you can relish in the victory, the monster has you pinned against the wall leading into the foyer.  Your shoulder joint objects against the way he's pushing it; you whimper and growl, kicking at him futilely, but his hand only presses against you harder and his face hovers so close.  His eyes blaze with anger and the pain echoing through his nonresilient body.  You're speechless – instantly sound means nothing, though seconds ago it was all you had.

This is when the monster's mask strips away, revealing only the sagging and wrinkled skin of your father's face.  Here is the truth: there are no green scales, horns, long canines, extra limbs, tails, or fifteen eyes situated around his receding hairline.  It's just him.  Your father.  Distantly you think that if you wanted to, you could reach out and douse your fingers in the hate sluicing from his eyes.

You understand after one good look at that loathing:

Your father hates you.  He drinks because he hates you, or more specifically, because he hates providing for your both you and your mother.  Before you were born, they were happier: they stayed up together just to see the sunrise.  There was no overdrawn bank account, no incessant demands for more toys, more games – more fun.  Dinner dates were common affairs that didn't mean packing you into the mini-van so they could go wherever you dictated.  They went to upscale restaurants with impeccable service instead of your favorite burger joint where greasy, forgetful teens worked in the summer.  Whirlwind weekend getaways were spontaneous, unforgettable things that gobbled up less money than your last dental appointment did.

It all comes down to you, you, you, and there is no time for what anyone else wants.

His halitosis makes you gag.

As he reaches up to strike, he considers, is merciful, and just knocks you aside.  Then he is gone, slamming the front door behind him, and leaves you to cry and your mom to tremble as she goes back to dinner.  Neither of you have an appetite now.  She ushers you to bed once she cleans up.  Your mom doesn't blame you for this – she cannot, but she still cries about it.  It was her idea to have you and now she must live with the irreparable rips in the happy, carefree life she once had.

She tucks you in, kisses your forehead, and turns off the lamp.  When her sobs have faded into the living room completely, you shed your covers and go to the wall where shadows make undefined shapes that remind you of embraces.  To them you accept that you were wrong: monsters do exist; they're all around us; and there you were, searching around stairs, reaching under rugs, and peeping behind pictures when a monster just walked in and out of your home without contest.

You learn very quickly that the best place to hide something is in plain sight.

**# # #**

"—Ryo-sama, please wake up –"

"Ryo!"

"Is he okay?"

"I 'unno, he just fainted!"

You don't open your eyes yet.  You just listen to Ken, Veemon, and Wormmon fuss over you.  A small, shaking hand touches your forehead to test for fever and that's when you groan and turn over, pretending to regain consciousness only now.

"Ryo-sama!" Ken says.

"Don't be so loud, Ken . . ."

"Sorry!"

"Ow."

**# # #**

Later, after you make the executive decision to camp here for the night and following day, you speak with Ken.  Your discussion is unnerving.  You don't remember fainting.  Ken says that you got this "funny look" on your face as though you were "gonna' give birth and yodel at the same time."  After that you blacked out and nothing could rouse you for several minutes; you woke up on your own.  You don't want to worry Ken further by mentioning the trip down memory lane.  If he squeezes you any tighter, he might end up breaking a few bones.  He has a wide-eyed, teary look that forgives you of all past transgressions and those to come.  Though he doesn't explicitly confide in you about his fear of your death, every five minutes he asks you if you're, in his own words, "still there."  This upsets you as a matter of principle: you're not going anywhere, but you don't reprimand him today.

"Ken, I like being able to breathe," you tease.  Breaking the silence is a comfortable relief again.

"Oh."  He shifts a little, but hardly loosens the grip on your sweater.

You ruffle his hair.  "Come on.  Look at me."

"You could get That Look again," Ken mumbles.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?" he asks, chancing a glance at you.

"I'll pinky swear on it," you say.

You exchange vows with him.  He is still shaky and anxious, but he begins to smile.

"Still there?"

"Ken."

"Ryo-sama . . ."

"Ken."

"Ryo –"

"Ken!" you say, laughing.  "You're insufferable."

He looks stricken.  Maybe even hurt.  You sober instantly.

"I'm still here," you point out gently, "and you can see that."

With the sun dipping close to the horizon, your shelter darkens with the sky's dimming colors.  Bands of purple and red touch the treetops first.  The air around you cools noticeably, but that only makes the temperature more agreeable.

"I don't want to be left alone here," Ken says in a half-whimper.

You want compensation for the time wasted while crafting _Calming Down Ichijouji_.  Here everything is impromptu again: there are no ground rules, no platitudes, no rehearsals, no stage directions, no goals, no lines, no profit, no projected outcome.  You imagine tearing out the pages one by one and using them as toilet paper since you're low on that too.

"I promise you won't be stuck here," you say worriedly.

"You can't make promises you can't keep," Ken says.

"I can," you correct.

Your eyes move uneasily around the oasis for some relief.  Veemon and Wormmon provide no help; they are curled together in slumber by your knapsack.  That's when you spot the coiled, braided whip attached to the shoulder strap.

Where you got it or who gave it to you was recently lost in the amnesia the Digital World forces on you when time is invariable.  Half of what you've experienced feels like it never happened.  Your goal to fight and defeat the desert menace is the only beacon that never fluctuates, but the steps leading up to your night here are vague, muddled insults of the real struggles and triumphs that paved the way.  These disoriented memories you talk about to no one – the team's concern would be too great.  Ken would be both scathed and frightened if he found out that you were uncertain whether you knew him in the real world or met him here.  He could have been a foreigner and you could have been the lonesome traveler on your way through a supply depot when you crossed paths.  The details of both possibilities seem real enough.  You don't like to think about it.

Where you learned to use the whip is another mystery and also one you hardly dwell upon when there are other matters to worry over.  All you know is that you can use it, and usually with great success.

"Ken," you say and take him by the shoulders.

"Ryo-sama?"

"I admit you're right," you say, hesitating.  "I may not be here to protect you forever.  But – hey, don't cry again! – I'm going to make sure that you aren't totally defenseless if that happens."

"If that happens?" he repeats.  His eyes are glazed.

"Yeah.  I mean, you'll have Wormmon by your side, but that's not all.  Budge over and let me stand.  I should have taught you how to use this earlier."

**# # #**

Ken sleeps like a baby after your long lesson on the proper handling of a whip.  He wasn't too terrible with the weapon – its great length caused him some problems, but once he's older and taller you bet that he'll have little to no difficulty employing it for any task.  Right now it's still yours, but you plan to give it to him eventually whether you're present or not: he's earned it.

You watch over him, thinking about these things in the silence.  These thoughts have to come now and you consent to them.  The desert menace can't be too far; and when you finally encounter it, all of this will end.

It's bitterly cold during the desert nighttime, just like last night – a night already slipping from your memory.  The oasis can't provide any warmth, but it prevents winds from assailing your encampment.  You appreciate staying here until tomorrow, even if it means consuming more time.

Here comes Veemon.  He's next on the watch since you decided Ken ought to get at least one full night's rest.  Relieved of your post, you sit down next to Ken, tuck the blankets around his shoulders until his infrequent shivers stop, and then stretch out to watch the stars until sleep comes.  It will overpower your wandering thoughts sooner or later.

In the meantime you'll look out for him – your accomplice, your best friend – and make sure no monsters get past you now.

**# # #**

**END**

**# # #**

**Author's Notes:**  How long has it been?  Thanks to those of you that helped me with this.  Apologies go to any of my remaining fans that were disappointed about my disappearance from the fanfiction universe.  I don't know if I'll pick up more stories, including _Saccharine_.  Please leave a review if you feel inclined to.

**Disclaimer:**  I don't own anything.


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